


as long as I am with you

by transstevebucky



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Harry only has like the cold though he overreacts what a drama queen, IT IS JUST FLUFF AND PINING AND RIDICULOUS BOYS, Pining Harry, Sick Fic, amen to Niall for showing Louis Rather Be, carnival fic, just rots your teeth to be honest!, pure fluff, there's no sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 04:26:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1765426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transstevebucky/pseuds/transstevebucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry is in love with his best friend. louis wants to take him to a carnival -no matter how sick Harry is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as long as I am with you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icecreamandlarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icecreamandlarry/gifts).



> this is just for N, who is flawless and wonderful - for her birthday!!!
> 
> title taken from Rather Be by Clean Bandit (because that song is made for HL)
> 
> this is all false (obviously)

Harry’s always had a smell about him when he’s under the weather. Slightly clinical, smelling like all the medicines he stock piles into his system, slightly like a hospital ward in the sense that he smells like illness. 

Obviously, this means he can never really fake that he’s not ill. Especially when it’s Louis. Harry has a hard enough time faking anything when around Louis, but Louis has known him for years, now. So, he’s the first of his friends to narrow their eyes at him when Harry sneezes. 

And it’s not a bad thing. Harry likes knowing that Louis can tell when he’s lying, for the most part. He enjoys how Louis gets intensely, ridiculously protective when Harry is ill. But it’s the weekend before the carnival Louis has promised to take Harry to, and he knows Louis will just end up selling the tickets to Zayn and Niall, and probably make them film everything they do.

So, Harry tries to hide that he’s sick. But it doesn’t go well from the moment he decides he has to.

 

______________

 

They’re all sat in Niall’s shed, which got done up pretty nicely in the last summer. The boys know that Niall only asked for it to be done up so that he could get girls home without being interrogated, or drink without his parents knowing. Harry doubts that Niall’s dad would really have a fit about it (Louis once said that he’d probably give Niall the alcohol to get drunk with, which might be true).

Louis is pressed against Harry, as is the norm for two naturally tactile people. Zayn is laying across Liam, and Niall is setting up his iPod to a docking station to show them, direct quote, ‘a fuckin’ sick tune, lads, gotta hear it.’

“Y’alright, Haz?” Lou asks, eyes blinking behind rims of his black glasses he got when he was sixteen. Harry still thinks his eyes are impossibly pretty and really, really blue. Louis has really lovely eyes.

Well, Louis has really lovely everything, really, but his ego’s big enough for all of them. Harry won’t bring it up, partly for fear of sounding like an eye-hoarding maniac and partly because Louis might smile the way he always does, eyes crinkled and lips thin and bright pink, and yeah. Harry is mostly fearful of what he’ll do after he gives Harry his ‘Harry smile’ as Zayn named it last summer, when they’d all been camping and Harry had brought firewood when none of the others had remembered. Remembering the smile on Louis’s face as he’d set it down is the kind of thing that makes him wonder if being in love with his best mate is a good thing.  
“Always am, Boo.” Harry says, giving the blue-eyed boy a confident grin even though, deep down, he feels sort of shitty. Like, he can smell the illness in his own nose, and he knows his throat is sore, which just means his voice is rougher and raspier than normal.

Louis gives him a small once-over, before seeming to settle back into Harry, nose pressing into his jugular.

They’ve always been this close as a group. Harry fell into Louis from the moment he met him, fell a few seconds later, and it’s been the same since. The whole group is naturally touchy and sweet and lovely, because they fit like puzzle pieces. They never fail to know when to give one another space, or extra attention, or make more jokes. It’s natural, for all of them, to be as comforting and warm as is possible when you’re 17, 18 and 19 year old guys. 

“You seem a bit off,” Zayn mumbles, from where his head is in Liam’s lap, Liam gently carding fingers through Zayn’s droopy quiff. Harry thinks that Zayn probably hates when his quiff droops, but doesn’t hate when Liam touches him for it. Zayn is just as gone for Liam as Harry is for Louis, probably, but the problem with that is that Liam is, for the most part, straight. “Sick?”

“I’m fine.” Harry deadpans, crossing his arms and snuggling closer to the boy next to him, warm in every place he’s touching him. Harry is, like, one hundred percent sure he can feel the heat even through his warm lilac jumper. Or maybe that’s just the electric heater Niall begged off his parents. He’s trying to be romantic, shut up.

“You don’t look it.” Liam says, nodding towards Harry. He knows his face is a little paler than usual, but he’d been trying to palm it off on being winter. Fuck Liam, he thinks. Fuck him and his observational skills. Fuck him.

“Yeah, Haz. You do seem a bit off, as it goes.” Niall says, cursing a bit when he jiggles the iPod too much and almost sends it flying to the floor. His crisp-greasy fingers catch it before it does, though.

“I’m fucking fine, okay? I’m not fucking ill. I am not.” His voice is really, really raspy. Zayn gives him an eyeroll that says ‘you keep thinking that, fucker’, Niall just keeps fiddling with the dock of his iPod, Liam sighs, and Louis narrows his eyes. Harry can feel the way his lashes flutter against his collarbone. Harry tries not to cry at how much he’d like to take pictures of it. At how much he wants to take pictures of everything Louis does. The world deserves it, he reasons, knowing it is entirely unreasonable and that he only wants pictures of Louis so he can jerk off to him guiltily at 2am. You know. The usual.

“Fuckin’ chill, H, Christ,” Niall laughs, rolling his eyes with a smirk on his crumb speckled lips. Two seconds later, the song started up. Harry tries, and fails, not to laugh at the fact this is, currently, his favourite song. He tends to enjoy songs that remind him of he and Louis. He’s a little bit creepy.

“Yes! We got the tune!” Niall exclaims, Irish accent thick as he pumps his fists, spreading out between Zayn and Liam and Harry and Louis. 

Niall doesn’t seem to realise he’s what brought the five of them together. Harry knew Louis from when he was five and Harry moved to Doncaster, since Jay came over to introduce themselves to the family of three. Louis had glowed, bright and exuberant as he grabbed Harry’s small five year old body into a large hug. It was not until Harry and Louis were both at high school that they met Niall, however, who had two friends called Liam and Zayn. Aftee weeks of convincing on both accounts, the five met up together, and ever since, they’ve been inseparable.

Niall is essential to the group, linking them together. Besides Louis, Harry thinks Niall is definitely his favourite person in the whole world. He loves all of his friends (Louis maybe a bit more) and Zayn and Liam are great. But Niall and Louis are optimistic and bright and like suns. Harry thinks of all people, Niall probably deserves good things most. 

As the first verse of Rather Be begins flooding through Niall’s iPod dock, Harry finds Louis grinning into Harry’s neck. Warmth judders up Harry’s veins like a train up a track, fast and steaming and beautiful, like Louis himself. Harry thinks Louis deserves one million metaphors dedicated to him. Louis probably thinks Harry is a bit nuts. 

“Switch up the batteries!” Louis snickers, a second after the line floods into the shed, lyrics heating Harry up and making his veins thrum. He loves this type of song; bright, vibrant, but with real emotion. Raw. Louis could probably pull it off. Louis should pull Harry’s clothes off. Maybe then he could make Harry raw. Harry doesn’t think he’d mind much.

Maybe Harry needs to fucking get his mind out of the fucking gutter, for fucks sake.

“Christ, it isn’t about vibrators, Lou. Don’t get excited.” Niall sighs, nipping at Harry’s shoulder even though it was Louis who said it, not him. 

He has terrible friends.

He loves them a lot.

“Niall, you’re such a disappointment. Could you not find even one song about vibrators? Harry, find a song about vibrators.” Louis pokes Harry directly between his two bottom ribs, and fire and pain seeps through Harry’s torso as he winces, shoving at Louis. The shove is half-hearted and meaningless when he just ends up tightening his arms around Louis anyway. He’s probably a little bit fucked.

“Fuck off, Lou.” Harry rolls his eyes, listening as the second chorus fades off and sinks into ‘when I am with you’. Which fits he and Louis too well. His fingers clamp down on Louis’s shoulder, gentle. 

“Awh, c’mon, Haz. Vibrate me.” Louis wiggles his eyebrows.

 

Harry is actually slightly glad that his body takes that moment to seize up in a sneeze, because it covers up the fact he is completely and utterly speechless at Louis’s careless almost-flirting. 

The sound is loud, even with music trembling in the air around them, even with Louis giggling loudly, like a little girl. 

Harry’s throat gives a lurch of discomfort as the sneeze tears from him, eyes closing hard, shuddering his body, and he just manages to cover his nose before splattering Louis with goo. Like, he would happily cover Louis with bodily liquids. Just not this type of bodily liquid.

When Harry peeks his eyes open, Louis is narrowing his eyes and giving him a thin-lipped glare, like oh, not sick. So not sick. I can see it, dumbfuck.

“It was just a sneeze!” Harry gasps out, voice even hoarser than before.

The boys all give him knowing looks, smirking slightly. He has the fucking worst friends, seriously.

 

______________

 

Harry spends Saturday night and most of Sunday morning wallowing in self-pity and empty medicine packets. His mum had gone to a thing with Jay, so Louis was stuck looking after the girls, but Harry couldn’t join him because he didn’t want Louis to know he was sick. He also didn’t want to get the girls sick, which he felt should totally be seen as Saintly and Good Deedly. 

“Pathetic.” Gemma shakes her head at him, as he shuffles in plaid pajamas to the bathroom to grab some eye-drops because he always dries out when he’s ill. It is yet Another Thing Harry has come to expect upon being ill.

“I’m ill.” He says, pouting. Gemma just laughs, loud and raucous, like she only does when they’re home alone.  
“I meant just you in general.” She grins, giving him the finger before stepping backwards into her room.

Harry gasps at her rudeness, shuffling into the bathroom to stop himself from angering her or something. Gemma is really easy to infuriate. It shouldn’t be as pleasing as Harry sees it to be, but then Louis has also always enjoyed mocking people. Harry sometimes wonders how Louis and Gemma didn’t become friends. After all, Louis and Gem have always been older than Harry. They’ve always gotten along, of course, because the Styles Family and the Tomlinson Clan just naturally fit that way, but Harry and Louis have a bigger bond than any of their families except maybe Jay and Anne.

Harry glances at himself in the mirror and sighs. He’s wxy and pale, sweat on his brow and upper lip, his mouth cracked and his eyes red and bloodshot. He looks terrible, really, has never looked good when ill. Louis manages it, somehow, perhaps with years of watching Lottie put make up on. Louis always has looked oddly rouged when ill. Perhaps Lottie helps him.

The thought of Louis in make up doesn’t help anything except maybe a boner, though, so he just tries to push that out of his mind and searches in the cabinet for a small box of aspirin for his kicking headache.

He finds a couple of pills at the back, between moisturising cream and toothpaste, and pops them dry. The taste is dry and equal to nothing, absolutely horrifying. He coughs, knowing it is his fault but also that he would find a way to blame someone else.

When he shuffles back to his room, he finds his phone is blinking green at him. The cracked screen is dirtied with fingertips, and he wrinkles his nose as he slides it unlocked. The text is from Louis, and Harry debates opening it because if he does, Louis will know, and he’ll have to answer.

After two seconds of deliberating, he pulls it up, and softens at the words on the screen. Louis might seem obnoxious, loud, brash. But he isn’t, not always. When he misses Harry, he becomes the biggest sap in the world. Harry finds it endearing. The boys find it mildly sickening.

Hazza I miss you. Come to my house so I can hug you and the girls can fond over your curls I missss yooouuuu xxx

It is undeniable that Harry has only a fond smile on his face as he taps out a response, happiness not the only curling in his gut.

I saw you yesterday, dimwit. Why don’t you come over here and get Zayn to look after the girls?? xxx

The response comes to Harry as he types it, and he already semi-regrets it when he’s hit send, after the text has become a series of 1’s and 0’s into the world of networks and texts. But it’s too late to take it back, because two seconds after he’s sent it (or so it feels), it flicks up that Louis has read it. 

Sometimes, the fact Louis sees things Harry does and watches things he says and reads what he types seems a bit much. It seems to sink in Harry’s gut and settle like a nice weight of Louis hasn’t gone yet Louis is still here a pretty boy is watching you. It seems like a nice thing, but Harry worries that one day, Louis might not like the things he says or does any more. He thinks that is a little stupid, because Harry still makes Louis laugh (involuntarily, which is his favourite type of Louis laugh, because it’s loud and harsh like everything Louis does, but still nice and warm). 

His computer screen buzzes static as the text comes through, so he’s already looking at the message page before it even arrives. It pops up right at the bottom, black and bold.

Ahhh good idea babe!!! I’ve texted Z already xxx

Harry’s tummy fizzes excitedly with the endearment, the word babe churning nicely in the pit of it, fuzzy like Louis’s smiles make him feel. Louis is pretty. Harry thinks Louis won’t even believe for a second that Harry is well. Harry wonders if it matters, if maybe he can get better before next Saturday, when the carnival comes to town, then Louis won’t sell the tickets. It seems a stretch, but he might be able to pull it off. Maybe.

Another text comes through before Harry has even tapped out a reply, and Harry’s lips quirk up despite himself.

He says alright but we owe him for when he wants to visit liam ;) Be over in five. xxx

Harry texts back a quick ‘okay, see you in five! xxx’ and promptly shits himself with worry.

Not literally, because that’d be gross, but like. Metaphors. Metaphors are one of the only things Harry gets to use for Louis. Metaphors are Louis. Louis is a metaphor. Louis is the sun, Harry thinks sometimes. He thinks, more often, that if humans can be stars, Louis is already burning without any hint of burning out. 

“Gem! Lou’s coming over!” It takes all of Harry’s vocal strength to raise his voice enough that Gemma will be able to hear, and she makes an affirmative noise in response.

 

Harry is sat in the living room, scrubbed face and washed body but unwashed hair, curled up in a blanket watching Frasier on the television even though he’s never watched it in his life. He’s pretty sure Niall might have mentioned it at sometime, but he thinks Louis had offered him a blunt at the time, and he was pretty sure he’d been staring at Louis’s tiny hands with wonder of how well they would fit in Harry’s own.

He has at least a little colour back with the scrub of his face, and he thinks he’s covered up the ‘sick’ smell he has, but he can’t be sure because he’s a bit sniffly, which can’t really be helped. 

Louis comes through the door, kicks off his shoes, and takes a flying leap onto the couch, crushing Harry’s legs and letting out an ‘ooft!’ as he winds himself, but just giggles into Harry’s shoulder, as if they have been separated for years. Louis has never liked separation, Harry knows, because he’s always a little bit worried the person might stop caring about him. Harry worries about Louis’s inferiority complex, sometimes, but Louis is egotistical enough for it to not be a major issue. 

“Hey, H.” Louis grins, lips pressing to Harry’s neck. Harry’s eyes flutter closed at how soft and warm the touch is, all mouth and niceness. He’s soft like this, away from the group. He thinks he has to be a big ball of never-sad energy, Harry knows, even though that’s stupid. Louis should feel comfortable with all the boys, just to be himself.

“Hello, Lou.” He mumbles, and Harry feels when Louis senses something is up. His body stiffens, and he crawls backwards a bit, and narrows his cerulean eyes to stare into Harry’s duller-than-normal fern coloured ones. 

“You’re sick, Haz,” Louis’s voice is slightly sad, like a puppy that’s been kicked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Harry flushes under Louis’s gaze, all stern and yet soft. 

“Figured you might, like, sell the carnival tickets if you knew?” Harry admits, glancing down.

Louis fidgets with his fingers for a moment before kissing Harry gently on the forehead, rolling off the sofa all in one move.

“Lou? Where ya goin’?” Harry’s voice is syrupy slow with all of the medicine in his bloodstream, and Louis brushes his fingertips along Harry’s cheek softly. The touch sends sparks trailing after it; Harry sort of wants to grab his hand and keep it there.

“I’m gonna get some microwave soup from your kitchen, and I am going to put it in a bowl, and you are going to explain to me why you’d think I’d sell the tickets I bought for us. And then we’re gonna spend the week making sure you get better, okay? Because I don’t like seeing you ill. Okay?” Lou asks, voice kind.  
Harry’s kind of tired and drowsy, so he just mumbles an ‘Okay, yeah’.

He’s asleep before the soup is even heated all the way through. Louis kisses his nose and pokes him awake and spoon feeds him the soup, because Harry is too tired to control his limbs.

And, for the first time, Harry lets himself really hope that Louis loves Harry as much as Harry loves Louis.

 

______________

 

It takes all of Harry’s willpower to force himself out of bed the next morning. He has always hated Mondays, anyway, but being sick makes it ten thousand times worse. It’s only, really, the fact Louis has spammed him all night that he has to come in because he needs to watch Louis practice for a play he’s aiming to be the star of, that he even bothers. He realises that might be a little bit weird; that he is so obsessed with Louis that he will willingly go to school even when his stomach is rolling.

He pops a couple pills and tries to ignore it.

Gemma’s used the hot water already, so he ends up hopping and hissing a bit when the cold water hits him at his most vulnerable. He’s shaking, but he’s clean, so he just bundles himself in a towel before walking back to his room. 

Seeing as he’s sick, and he’s had Zayn write him notes before so he can get away with going in trackies, he just climbs into a pair of grey ones he’s pretty sure used to be Louis’s, and pulls on a pressed, white shirt with a grunt. It’s slightly too tight on his broad shoulders (he’s actually sort of sure it might have been Louis’s once, but he can’t be sure), but it is the only thing he owns that might be acceptable to wear to school.

He’s already running late by the time he slides his shoes on with a groan, can hear Louis honking his car’s horn outside his house. If Louis wasn’t aware Harry is sick, he might yell. But, bless him to the end of the earth, he doesn’t scream. 

It’s cold and bitter outside, winter chilling him to his bones with a coat wrapped around him. Harry’s just hoping Louis’s shit box of a car might actually be warm for a change.

He isn’t that lucky. It’s not only a shit box, but an icebox, too.

 

“How are you today?” Louis is blindingly pretty, today. The grey of the sky catches the light peach fuzz on his cheeks perfectly, lips not chapped like Harry’s are. “You still smell sick.”

“I am,” Harry admits with a pout, fluttering his eyelashes at Louis, “make it go away.” Louis just laughs at his friend’s absurdity. Harry’s tummy flutters with what may be the illness that has brought him down, but might also be that Louis is just really pretty.

They sit in comfortable silence as Louis pulls out, fingers tickling the nape of Harry’s neck when he puts his arm around the passenger side seat to look behind him. They’re used to this; the silence that Louis used to find scary, but now finds comforting. He can only really be himself with Harry. He’s himself with the boys, too, but he always seems to feel obligated to be the leader. It hurts Harry, because he quite likes when Louis’s face is calm and collected yet soft, silence not unnatural like it used to be. Like it had been when Harry first knew Louis, when they were five and seven and Harry fell for him for the first time.

The first time Louis was ever willingly quiet had been when Harry had fallen out of the tree in Louis’s back garden. It had seemed large, then, though it barely stands three feet taller than Harry now, but he’d sprained his wrist with the fall. Louis had cried and cried as they went to the hospital, apologising gently. Harry had just smiled at Louis like he was the sun, because Louis had always been very very pretty, even with tears in his very blue eyes. As Harry had been given several prescriptions, had been fitted with with a wrist brace that made Harry feel really grown up, Louis sniffled and held his hand. Harry still remembers the warmth that had surged through him when Louis first trailed his fingers through Harry’s and knitted them together, tight and together. 

“Is Zayn writing you a note, then?” Louis asks, glancing down to see Harry’s grey trackies. The heat of his gaze makes goosebumps spread up Harry’s covered arms.

“Yeah, I’ll make him do it in form.” Harry mumbles, and he might be wrong, but he thinks he sees the very tips of Louis’s ears pink. His belly gives an excited flop.

“I’d do it for you,” Louis smirks, and Harry rolls his eyes, “if my handwriting was legible.”

“Thanks, Lou.” Harry whispers, and Louis giggles into his palm. 

Harry is, in no uncertain terms, completely fucked.

 

______________

 

Mondays are repulsive, mostly, but Harry manages to worm his way out of getting in shit for not doing his coursework. He just flutters his eyelashes and coughs a lot, and the teacher just gives up. He’s never not done work before, either, and he makes up for what he didn’t do at home in class, so he suspects that the guy can’t complain. He’s finished with what he had to do by the end of his deadline, anyway. The coursework was mainly finishing touches.

By the time he’s sat on the grass behind the library with the guys, he’s feeling slightly better. Harry suspects it mostly has something to do with the fact he’s been popping cold and flu tablets all morning. It might also have to do with the fact the miserable day has heated up to around fifteen degrees. The hope in the air is tangible; girls wearing skirts and untucked shirts, guys going barefoot or wearing pe kits. It’s been a while since England’s had nice weather, and even though it is slightly absurd considering there’s still snow in gaps of roads, it’s kind of nice. Everyone is crossing their fingers.

“You’re still watchin’ me practice, right? I wanna run lines with you.” Louis says, interrupting Liam halfway through a story about what he and Danielle did yesterday. The relief on Zayn’s face is obvious. Harry knows how he feels.

“Yeah, sure. Wouldn’t it make more sense to do it with someone from the play, though?” Harry shrugs, hoping that Louis won’t take the chance to ditch him. He doesn’t.

“They don’t like me.” He whines, leaning into Harry’s space in a way most people would find irritating but Harry finds endearing. Harry finds most everything about Louis endearing. It’s becoming a problem, really.

“Everyone likes you.” Niall points out, spitting some sort of non-nutritious probably-completely-banned-from-school-grounds food out as he laughs. Harry likes Niall’s laugh, quite a bit, but he likes Louis’s better. He likes Louis more than anything else, probably.

“Shut up, I’m trying to convince Harry, God damn.” 

Harry laughs even though it isn’t really funny, because Louis doesn’t need to convince Harry to do anything. Harry would probably hide a body for him. Go to jail for him. Harry is very in love with Louis. It’s sort of A Thing.

A really, really obvious thing.

“Harry doesn’t hate ya either, man.” Harry doesn’t know whether to love or hate Niall for that fairly obvious statement. But if the blush rising on Louis’s cheeks governs his thoughts on it, he maybe thinks he loves Niall for saying it. Louis is pretty always, but he’s even prettier when he’s blushy and bashful. 

The boys spend the remainder of lunch mocking them for not getting together. Harry rolls his eyes a lot, even though he just wants to kiss Louis, and Louis laughs. Even if he doesn’t seem to find it funny. 

 

______________

 

Louis is talented at a lot of things, but he’s most talented at acting and singing. So he says. Harry doesn’t particularly believe him. Harry thinks he’s most talented at existing, and being the kind of person people want to actually be around. 

But they’re talking and running lines in the drama room after hours, anyhow.

There’s only one moment when Harry almost blurts out that he loves him, though. Only one, which must be a record for him. It’s when Louis’s reading off of a sheet with notable lines on it (he’s trying for Puck for Midsummers. Harry is 100% sure he’ll get it). 

 

“Then will two at once woo one; that must needs be sport alone;...”

And Harry thinks, yeah, if that’s the only sport, he thinks Louis has got it in the bag.

 

______________

 

The week passes as Monday had. Louis gives Harry dithering looks every time he complains about being ill, Harry acts like he’s more well than he actually is, and the boys mock them for being a married couple. 

Harry wishes they wouldn’t mock him for being so obvious, because one of these days Louis is gonna realise and get weirded out and then leave him. Maybe. Harry isn’t really sure.

 

______________

 

Harry wakes up early on Saturday morning with a grin on his face and a boy in his arms. Louis stayed over last night because the carnival’s in London, so they’re gonna spend the day driving. It might have been better to sleep ‘round Louis’s, but then he complained and said that he was bored of having girls crawling into his bed all the time, and he’d much rather share the bed with Harry.

Harry maybe stuttered for five minutes after because the thought of Louis in his bed made him hard, and he maybe came in only three minutes when he ran off to shove his hands down his pants, but. It’s whatever.

What matters now is that Louis is really quite pretty when he’s sleeping, making tiny noises of approval and softness that makes Harry’s heart melt ten times over. Which might be slightly improbable, because Louis has destroyed his heart in one too many ways and with too much ease, but. The point is that Louis is just really, really pretty.

“Lou,” Harry mumbles, after a few too many minutes of creepy staring, “gotta get up to drive.” 

Louis grumbles a bit and curls his fingers into Harry’s hip. Harry freezes, staring as the boy leans closer to his chest and whines, soft and lovely as everything is when it belongs to Louis. Harry is much too tired to deal with a soft, clingy Louis. Louis with long, long eyelashes, thick thighs, curvy hips, and an arse like Kim Kardashian. 

“Can’t we stay? Like it with you. Warm.” Louis’s voice is hoarse and dry, but it makes goosebumps rise along the back of Harry’s neck and a shudder roll down his spine. He hopes to a God he doesn’t believe in that it isn’t noticeable.

“I know, Boo, but we gotta go. You promised.” Louis sighs, gentle, into Harry’s neck (when did he even get there? Why was Harry not warned?), but shifts backwards all the same. Harry misses the warmth of his body, but when Louis’s eyes open and they’re bright blue and sparkling, he decides he can cope. Probably. Hopefully. He’s sort of pathetic where Louis’s concerned, is the issue.

“M’kay. When we goin’ ‘gain?” Louis always gets super Yorkshire after resting. It’s one of the reasons Harry loves him so much. One of the many, many reasons. Harry is so unbelievably fucked.

“After lunch.” Harry watches Louis’s nose crinkle. He’d never much liked solid breakfasts, Harry knew, Louis had always said they made him feel sick. 

“You cooking?” 

“No, Lou. Mum is.” Louis groans, shoving his head in the pillow before grumbling something that sounds like fucking insufferable arsehole. Harry isn’t so sure.

______________

He and Louis set off at half two in the afternoon, pizza in their stomachs and readiness thrumming in their veins. Louis’s got a pocket full of cash, Harry has a belly of butterflies and a lot of love for Louis, and he cannot believe that they’re going to a carnival that almost always sells out tickets. He can’t believe he has a friend like Louis, who would actually get him tickets.

He really, really loves Louis. Like, a lot. A lot a lot. Very much a lot. He really, really adores Louis, and it hurts because Louis is so wonderful and Harry’s just kind of. Well, Harry’s sort of lame, really. 

“You alright, Styles? Look sorta sick.” Louis says, fingers drumming against the wheel to the tune of Rather Be. Of fucking course. 

Louis looks flawless like this; illuminated by lights from cars because even though it’s three forty (it’s been an hour and ten minutes of staring at Louis, and watching Louis stare at the road. Which is partly pathetic, but mostly cute.) because the winter has gotten really heavy and it’s still semi-dark. His jawline is always spectacular, but with the flashes of lights, they’re thrown into dark contrast. Harry’s stomach twists into knots. 

“Just tired.” Of being completely in love with you.

And yeah, Harry is completely and utterly fucked.

 

______________

They get to central London at half five, which gives them an hour to mosey on around shops and sigh when they see something that is ridiculously out of their price range. 

They know they can’t buy anything, but they giggle into each others’ ears and press close to shield themselves from the cold, joking about some of the advertisements in the window of Ann Summers. It’s nice, to feel the heat of Louis’s side and think as long as you’re with me, the cold doesn’t even really sting, which is appallingly sappy and Louis would slap him if he ever found out. Then again, Harry would die of pure mortification if Louis ever found out, so. 

“Shit, H, look at that!” Louis giggles, lips warm and parting against Harry’s frozen ear, fingers stroking his side, other hand pointing.

When Harry sees it, he almost dies. 

The sign is fucking huge, lit up like a Christmas tree, so it’s not something eyesight drifts from very easily. But Harry almost dies because it’s fucking hilarious, absolutely the most hysterical thing to see ever, and not even just because it’s Louis who showed him it.

In fifty foot high, neon yellow lettering, are the words: KISS MY ASS, with a tall, slender woman in a suit directly descending from it.

The letters in the middle had all died out, obviously, the motto actually meant to state KISS MY CLASS. 

“F-ucking hell!” Harry chokes, wrapping one hand around Louis’s bicep and squeezing, hard.

Louis freezes next to him, if only for a second, and Harry wonders what he freezes for. Is his touch shocking? Harry and Louis have always been tactile, so he doubts it. A couple seconds later, he stops worrying, because Louis joins in laughing, going back to normal. But the thought won’t leave, not even when they leave to get their tickets stamped for the carnival. 

Why did Louis freeze up on me? 

 

______________

 

Louis cannot throw for shit. Harry knows this because Harry has been watching him throw rings at a bottle for two minutes, his face contorting with all the effort the aim is putting him under. Harry also knows this because one time in year nine Louis tried to throw a basketball and, somehow, ended up breaking Niall’s nose. Niall hadn’t stopped laughing the whole time he was getting it reset. Niall’s a fucking weirdo.

Louis’s wrist flicks out, and Harry momentarily wonders if his hand would look so elegant around Harry’s dick before remembering literally in public. So he stops. Or tries to stop. It’s kind of harder than it should be. (Which is fantastic, because so is he).

He misses. Because of course he does.

Louis’s eyes flash to Harry’s eye and he pouts. He looks unreasonably adorable, unreasonably hot. It hurts, a bit. Hurts to know that even though it’s really, really cold, that Louis exudes this warmth that Harry wants to feel in his chest but never will. That he’s so magnificently himself. That he’s so adorable whilst being a kink Harry never knew could exist. He’s pretty sure Louis could piss on him and he’d still be hard. The point is, Louis is really quite pretty. Like, really pretty. Even though he’s just waited two pounds on this stupid fairground game. Even though he didn’t want to go to the clown tent, because he’s terrified of clowns when Harry loves them. He’s just gorgeous. Harry is a little bit sad about it.

“I wanted to get you a bear.” He whispers, and Harry notices how much he must of grown in the past six months. Louis’s almost two inches shorter than him, and it should not be as hot as it is. 

“Boo, I’ve got you.” Harry grins, not even joking. He has Louis, maybe not the way he does want him, but he still has him, which is nice to know.

“That’s so fucking sappy, H, what the fuck.” But he’s beaming, ear to ear, cheeks flushed a lovely pink.

Harry smiles, warm, and Louis grins back. It’s like. It’s like gravity, the way Harry just wants to be pressed close to Louis and kiss him breathless. It’s like an ache in his throat; an itch in his chest. It gets unbearable, sometimes, but the way Louis grins at him as he drags him to the ferris wheel, flickering blue lights over Louis’s ridiculously cut jawbones.

 

______________

 

They’re ascending, and under the stars they look like pale sea creatures, flickering in and out of existence as they slowly move upwards. The slight breeze lays flush on their skin, even through the layers, and Harry feels a damp breeze fluttering up his neck even through his cream coloured scarf.

“The stars look pretty like this,” Louis whispers, and even though he hasn’t turned, Harry can see the awed look on Louis’s face. The stars are oddly bright, considering how polluted London’s air is, but Harry thinks they’re nothing compared to Louis. Which is depressingly sappy but kind of cute. “Like little gems.”

Harry thinks Louis is like a little em; just small enough in size to hold beauty and sharp edges, but large enough to contain the universe. Harry thinks Louis contains more of the universe than most people do, which might be why his eyes glint like they hold stars. As if the millions of stories he has to tell are all fitted into one gem of a human being; a casing of beauty and soft smiles.

“Yeah.” Harry agrees, slightly breathlessly.

They continue moving, humming tunes under their breath as they slowly make their way to the top. They’re high up now, higher than any of the other rides. But it’s wonderful, that plummeting feeling mixed with butterflies. Like a cocktail of emotional battery. 

It’s so pretty, with Louis pressed to his side and a smile on his lips, with stars twinkling above him. Endless, constant. Infinite. Harry feels infinite. 

“It feels like we might just,” He gestures with his hands, and Louis laughs besides him, because he understands what he’s trying to do, but it’s still hilarious, “float up. Like, we’re just going to end up in this void that. That doesn’t even need to be proven, because there’s a gap between everything. Like, the gap between sleeping and waking. There has to be a gap between floating and being grounded.” 

Louis turns to him, and Harry turns to Louis, and all he sees is wonder. Wonder, and awe, and beauty. Louis exudes beauty with every breath, with every moment of existence. Right now, he looks breathless.

“I’m in love with you.” He whispers, and suddenly Harry isn’t staring into the face of Louis Tomlinson, because he’s snapped his eyes close and Louis is kissing him. 

It feels so, so comforting, a burning spreading through Harry’s body, a constant feeling of infinity, and the cold battles against their skin and heat rushes through their lips, and Louis is kissing him. Harry has dreamed of this for so, so long, but the act of it is what sends tingles dancing through him. He thought his imagination could not get any better. But Louis proves him wrong, time and time again.

Eventually, as Harry begins to unclasp his hands from the seat to go to grab Louis’s collar, Louis pulls back. His eyes are glistening, like the stars they’re spread out under, endless. His lips are passion bruised. Louis has never looked so flawless.

“I.” Harry chokes, because he’s an arsehole, and he already feels the way Louis’s lips were moving fading from memory, and he cannot allow that to happen. He wants Louis pressed against him, always, fingers tucked into his hair, lips pressing to his jugular. “Oh.”

“Was that too much?” Louis looks frightened, a deer caught in the headlights. It is too endearing for what it is; a doubt of whether Harry likes him or not.

“Not enough,” Harry says, although he wanted to say something sarcastic, “won’t be enough.”

“Been wanting it for a while.” Louis admits, before his cheeks bloom bright red and he looks straight down, into the mess of cables and atomic matter that suspends them thirty feet high.  
“Should have said something.” Harry whispers, looking down. He thinks that the universe is very, very beautiful, and that it might be even more stunning if Louis would just kiss him again. On his lips, on his nose, on his hip, on his bicep. He wouldn’t mind if Louis left marks there. He might tattoo the spots. Every one, every single one, if Louis just looks at him, too.

“Um.” He mumbles something, fast and low, so low that even though Harry and Louis are pressed as close as possible, he still can’t hear it.

“What was that?” He takes pride in the fact he doesn’t waver, because Louis has looked up at him with bright, bright blue eyes that shine like the time before full night and evening. 

“That’s. Um. What this trip was about? It was meant to be this, like, really big sign. But I.” He scratches his neck, and it’s like Harry’s someone new to Louis, because his cheeks are so, so red, and that’s never happened before. Harry wants it to. Harry wants to make it happen, every hour on the hour. He’s maybe a little bit gone for Louis. Maybe a lot.

“Oh.”

“So? Do you like me?” Louis sounds breathy, like the answer might change his life forever. 

Harry’s response is to press his lips to Louis’s, and Louis breathes heavily into the kiss, before mumbling ‘was hoping you might say that’, and pressing his lips to Harry’s harder than before.

 

______________

 

Louis gets him a bear this time. Harry has to steady his hand and press his front to Louis’s back, but he gets the bear. And if the look in Louis’s eyes tells him right, he’s positively hopeless for Harry, when he locks his fingers with Louis’s.

So, Harry is fucked. But Louis is fucked, too, and he thinks he can last if Louis is fucked alongside him. 

They both feel a little infinite.

**Author's Note:**

> [talk about emotionally stunted boys in love w/ me](http://loudshrugstyles.tumblr.com/)


End file.
